


Thrice Met (Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell)

by mayseriouslyunusual



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 01:22:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4160277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayseriouslyunusual/pseuds/mayseriouslyunusual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fic about how Childermass came to be in Mr. Norrell's service.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thrice Met (Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell)

**Author's Note:**

> The canon is pretty hazy on when Childermass and Mr. Norrell's birthdates are, so for the purposes of this fic put Childermass's at around 1772, and Norrell's around 1762.
> 
> Also, for this to make sense you need to know that I headcanon Mr Norrell becoming really bitter about the Raven King as coming some time after Childermass entered his service.

**1782**

“That one, John,” said Edie, pointing to a man talking with two of his friends under the cover of a shop awning, about two hundred yards down the street.

“Are you mad?” he scoffed, “There’s no crowd-cover. They’d spot me in an instant.”

“What, are you scared?” Edie taunted.

“No, but I’m not stupid either.” John pushed his rain-soaked hair out of his eyes, and gave Edie a Look. He addressed the others in their little group, “We should get off home. There’s nothing to be had today. There’s no one about.”

“Well, fancy that,” said Edie, “the son of Black Joan, afraid to pick a pocket!”

“I am not scared. I just have sense.”

“You are too scared; either that or you don’t think you can do it.”

“I thought you were supposed to be the best of us, John,” Martin interjected.

“I could do it if I wanted to, but I don’t, so there!” John replied.

“Why? ’Cause you’re scared?” said Edie.

A whispered chant started up from the group. “John’s scared. John can’t do it. John’s scared. John can’t-”

“Alright, alright. Shut your gobs. I’ll do it!” said John. He pushed up his sodden shirtsleeves, and gave the group a defiant stare.

He hurried down the street, and reached the shop where the three men were talking.

“Excuse me sirs,” he said, “my mother’s sent me for baccy. Can I get by?”

“Eh lad, there’s no baccy here. I just bought the last packet,” his target replied.

Damn. There went John’s plan to lighten the man’s pockets as he entered the shop.

“Oh, thank you, sir.” John nodded, then started to walk away. As he did so, he brushed by the man and reached a hand into his pocket. He brought out a pocket watch, but it caught on something just as he was easing it out. The tricky bastard had hooked it inside his pocket.

John was running before the men even started to shout.

 

_Shit._

John pelted through the streets. He slipped on the wet cobbles, and one of his shoes came off. He growled and cast off the other one. They only reduced his grip and made it harder to run anyway. His chosen path led to the marketplace, where he hoped to lose his pursuers in the crowd. Alas, the bad weather meant the only people there were the miserable stall-keepers, and a few shoppers hurrying to make their purchases, their coat collars turned up against the wind and rain. John looked around in desperation as the shouts of his pursuers grew louder, and ducked into a side-street.

He had been stupid. Risked a flogging… or worse. And for what? A pot-metal pocket watch. He glanced at it, nestled in his palm, then dropped it into the gutter. At least if he was searched they wouldn’t find it on him.

He snarled. Edie could taunt and tease all she liked; he wasn’t going to risk dying for some stupid challenge.

He turned again, into the street of the booksellers. The best he could hope for would be to lose his pursuers by travelling a convoluted route. At least they hadn’t seen his face. He looked back to see if anyone was behind him, and cannoned straight into a man coming out of a shop. Books flew into the air and splatted onto the wet cobbles. John just managed to catch one before it went into the gutter.

“Ah, my books!” the man exclaimed, dropping to his knees and beginning to gather up the fallen tomes. John heard footsteps sound at the end of the street, and knelt down also. He surreptitiously manoeuvred so he was hidden behind the man, and his pursuers ran past without noticing him. He gathered up an armful of books, and stood up, as did the man.

“Watch where you’re going next time, boy,” he said, rubbing the cover of one the books with his sleeve. John noticed that he was really quite a young man, though his short stature and small eyes made him look older.

“I am sorry about your books, sir,” said John, handing over the stack he held.

“As well you should be, some of these are the last existing copies of their works,” said the man, as he inspected them for damage. John was glad he was so preoccupied with his purchases, for it meant he had not made the connection between the running boy and the men who had passed by so soon after.

“Are they magic books, sir?” he asked. The man looked up sharply.

“How do you know that?”

“I read the covers, sir.”

“Oh, forgive me,” said the man, “I had assumed you could not read.”

John mumbled something about the priest who had come to town last year, and who had taught him his letters. “But I thought that magic had died out when the Raven King left?”

“Ah, many people believe that to be the case. But I do not think it is so. It is my hope that through study, I will be able to restore English magic to what it once was. I am deeply fascinated by John Uskglass, the Raven King as you call him. What made him leave? Why did magic go with him?” This was clearly an important subject to the man, for he talked very animatedly, and almost dropped his books again.

“I wish you luck with it, sir,” said John. With that, he sauntered back the way he had come.

 

* * *

**1786**

John woke up blearily. It took him a moment to unstick his gummed-up eyelids, and when he did he immediately regretted it. The sun stabbed his eyes with sharp splinters of light, making him squint. His head hurt too, as if someone had been using the inside of his skull as a drum. He looked around himself. Two older men were sprawled out on the ground beside him, just beginning to wake up. John clambered to his feet, and that small exertion meant he had to lean against the wall. One of the other men stood up and clapped him on the back.

“Not bad, lad,” he said, “I would’a thought a little runt like you wouldn’t have been able to hold his drink, but you proved me wrong!” with that he staggered off, presumably to go home. John thought the idea an excellent one, and began the walk home himself.

 

‘Home’ was a run-down cottage in the woods, abandoned for near a decade. Black Joan’s gang had taken up residence there only a month ago, but they had already begun to claim it as their own. John shouldered the door open, and was met by the sight of his mother, sitting at the table and smoking her pipe.

“Where’s tha been, lad?” she asked.

“Drinking competition,” he muttered, wanting to avoid a conversation. His mother laughed, and the noise made him wince.

“Tha’s a bit young to be starting that sort of thing,” she said, sighing, “come, sit down, have something to eat.”

John did so, though eating was the thing he least wanted to do at the moment. His mother offered him some toast, and when he refused, offered him her pipe instead. John accepted it gratefully, and took a long pull.

“Thanks, mother.”

“So, how was it then?” she asked, taking her pipe back.

“I… don’t remember that much.”

“Eh, no matter. It’ll come back, and then tha’ll be surrounded in shame.” She regarded him coolly. “Go wake the others; they’ve work to do today.”

John nodded, then stood up. He ascended the rickety stairs. The first room he came to was the boys’ room, which he shared with Martin and Thomas. He opened the door and gave each of the sleeping forms a kick.

“Eh, John, there’s no need for that!” said Martin. Thomas simply uttered a string of swearwords.

The next room was the girls’ room, smaller, for it only had two occupants, Edie and Anna. He was gentle with Anna, shaking her awake, for she was only nine. Edie he kicked.

“You’re a rotten bugger, John Chellers!” she exclaimed as she sat up, and he gave her a twisted smile.

Once they were dressed, they filed downstairs. They all grabbed a bread roll for breakfast, and were soon on their way out. They would have a sit-down meal that evening. John made to head out too, but was stopped by his mother taking a firm grip on the back of his jacket.

“Where’s tha off to, lad?” she said.

“To work,” he replied, sulkily, shaking off her hand.

“Nay. Take a look at thissen, lad, tha’s in no fit state to go out pickpocketing. Go wash up in the river, and then I’ll maybe let thee out.”

He rolled his eyes, but did as she asked.

 

He shivered as he walked back to the cottage. The cool breeze played across his damp skin, making him feel numb. His head did feel a lot clearer though. He stopped. Someone had just spoken, he was sure of it. He looked to his left, and spotted a figure moving through the trees. He headed hesitantly towards the person, and was shocked when he reached them and immediately had a pile of books placed in his hands.

“Hold these a moment,” said the man, for it was a man, “if I put them down they are sure to get wet.” The man put his hand upon a tree. “Yes, this should do. Check something for me, boy. The red book, page 42, third passage. What shape is it I’ve got to draw again?”

John found himself doing as the man asked, though he was not sure why. “An oval, sir.”

“Ah, an oval. Thank you.” The man dipped his finger in some sticky yellow substance and drew a rough oval on the tree bark, then put his hand in the middle of it. He waited for perhaps thirty seconds, but nothing seemed to happen. He sighed. “I had high hopes for that spell. But no matter. I shall not let it discourage me!” He turned, and for the first time looked at John. “Do I know you, boy?”

“I think, yes, sir.” The man’s face was familiar, though John could not yet place him.

“Oh, didn’t you knock my books to the ground?” He sighed. “All of those works still have mud stains on the pages. You were interested in the Raven King. What’s your name?”

John muttered his name, embarrassed at its plainness.

“John what? Childermass?” said the man.

John opened his mouth to correct the man, but stopped himself. It was better that the man did not know his name, and besides, he rather liked the sound of Childermass. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Well, thank you Childermass, for your help. My name is Gilbert Norrell.”

“I’m sorry your spell did not work, Mr. Norrell. What was it meant to do?”

Mr. Norrell sighed. “It was meant to let me talk with the tree.”

“Did you make the paste with plantain, sir?”

“Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

“It was in the footnote, I though perhaps you might not have seen it, and that was why the spell didn’t work.”

“Why would I not read a footnote?”

“Well, there are a great many of them, sir.” John began to flick through the book, and stopped at a page that caught his eye. “A spell to disguise oneself as a shadow? That looks interesting.” He had a chance to read half the page before Mr. Norrell recaptured his books.

“Yes, very interesting,” he said. He held the books in an odd way, possessively. John looked at him, and decided that it would perhaps not be wise to ask to finish reading the section.

“I must go,” he said, “my mother is expecting me back.”

“Oh, of course. Go, boy. Do not get into trouble on my account.”

John bowed his head in farewell, and returned to the cottage.

 

* * * 

**1790**

Mr. Allen seated himself at the only free table, three away from where Childermass was presently leaning against the wall. Childermass regarded the man with distaste; he was a small, ratty-looking person, with the sort of expression that suggested he cared more for money than people. He began to look around, and after a few moments got out his pocket watch to check the time. Childermass decided it was time to go and meet him. He sat down, shuffling his cards as he did so.

“Good evening, sir,” he said. Allen jumped.

“You’re late.”

Childermass sniffed. “Perhaps.”

“Well, get on with it, man! I’d rather spend as little time in this place as possible.”

“Money first.”

“Why?”

Childermass sighed, and rolled his eyes. “I tell true futures, sir. Past experiences have led me to the conclusion that if what I see is unpleasant, people are disinclined to pay. So, money first.”

“Oh, very well.” Allen slid four shillings across the table.

“Thank you, sir. I am much obliged,” said Childermass, taking the coins and slipping them into his jacket. He laid out eight cards, and turned them over one by one. He studied them for a moment, and sniffed. It was a most mundane fortune. “You will be betrayed in some small way by an old friend, and the business venture you have entered recently will be successful. The cards do not tell me how these two events are linked.”

“It will be successful? Excellent.” Allen looked pleased. The news of the betrayal of his friend seemed to give him no pain. He got up, pulling his coat tight around himself. “Good evening, sir,” he said, and left.

 

Childermass sipped his beer, and contemplated his name. His mother’s death three and a half years back had resulted in the dissolution of their little gang, and he had had to take up a new identity. Mr. Norrell’s mistake had come to mind, and the change had stuck. He realised now what a foolish choice it had been, for Childermass was a far less commonplace surname than Chellers; but he had kept it, because others somehow felt wrong. ‘John Childermass’ fell so easily from his tongue now, even more so than ‘John Chellers’. It was odd, that a man he had met only on two brief instances had given him his name.

He was disturbed in his brooding by the innkeeper coming to his table.

“I’m afraid I have to ask you to leave, magician.”

Childermass looked up. “You are mistaken, sir. I am no magician, nor do I claim to be one.”

“Whether you are or not, your tricks with the cards are making my customers uncomfortable. It’s bad for business.”

Childermass drained his glass and stood up. “Very well, sir. You shall not see me again.” There was no point getting into a fight over it. Childermass may have had the height advantage, but he was wiry, and the innkeeper was heavily muscled from years of hefting beer kegs.

 

Childermass walked through the streets, his shoulders hunched against the cold. He would have to find a new place to meet customers, but no matter; it had happened before.

He missed having the security of a group. He had bickered constantly with the other members of his gang, but nevertheless, they had always been there. Always ready to offer help. He had seen Edie once since their parting; she already had a little gang of her own. The others he had not seen at all. He had thought he’d regained that sense of being part of a group working the docks in Whitby. But all he had really gained were his cards, and a smattering of French, learned from a royalist soldier who had taken refuge in England.

He turned down an alley, and stopped short. One man was holding another against the wall, pressing a knife to his throat. Childermass growled and slipped off his coat. Pickpocketing was an honourable trade, the best. But armed robbery? That gave a bad name to thieves everywhere, and it offended Childermass. He walked up behind the attacker, silently, then grabbed his jacket and pulled him backwards. He caught the wrist of the hand that was holding the knife, and squeezed. After a few moments, the man dropped the knife, and Childermass kicked it away. His opponent punched him in the mouth with his free hand, but it was a weak blow; Childermass kept his grip. He snarled and threw the mugger to the ground, giving him two savage kicks. Then he reached down and took the front of the man’s jacket, lifting him up and pushing him up against the wall.

“Why, Henry Roland. This is a step down from stealing off market stalls, isn’t it?” he growled, “Here’s a tip: want to mug someone? Learn how to fight aforehand.” Childermass brought his knee up, striking Roland in a delicate place. Henry slid down the wall, moaning. Childermass ruthlessly dragged him back up, and hissed: “If it wasn’t for your gran I’d be taking you to the magistrates. Next time, I won’t hesitate. Understand?”

Roland nodded frantically; Childermass released him, and watched him pelt away down the alley. He spat blood onto the cobbles, and turned to face the man who was being robbed.

“Are you alright sir—Mr. Norrell?!” he exclaimed.

“How do you know my name?” the man quavered. He was shaking, and a thin line of blood trickled down his throat.

“My name’s John Childermass, sir. You probably don’t remember—”

“No, I assure you I do! I did not recognize you, you look so much older. Thank you, Childermass, I believe you may have just saved my life.”

“What were you doing out, sir? And alone? These streets are dangerous for those as do not know them!”

“There was, uh, a load of books. Just come in. I thought to get in early… No matter. It was foolish of me. I see that now.” He stopped, and looked up at Childermass with his small eyes. “Childermass…” he said, hesitantly, “I have a proposition for you.”

“Sir?”

“But perhaps here is not the place to discuss it. Will you come back to my house with me? My carriage is but five minutes walk.”

“I think perhaps not—”

“No, no! I insist. Even if you decide against my proposition, I must still show my gratitude in some way!”

Childermass nodded grudgingly. At least it would be warm place to stay for the night.

“Oh, that is good! My carriage is this way.”

 

This was intensely awkward. Childermass did not know the correct way to drink the tea he had been given, and in this tidy room he was painfully conscious of his stained and ripped clothes. On top of that, the footman standing by the door regarded him with disdain, as if he might at any moment jump up and run off with the silver.

Mr. Norrell did not seem aware of the awkwardness in the room. He chatted quite amiably. Childermass nodded and gave one word replies, until he battled through his discomfort and asked:

“What was the proposition you had for me, sir?”

“Ah, yes, forgive me. I am getting away from myself. I had in mind to offer you a position. I know you share my interest in magic, and you have already proved your usefulness to me. The place of assistant would be out of the question of course, given your standing. But as a servant you could—”

Childermass stood up abruptly. “I would be most ill-suited to service, sir. I feel I must be going.” He glanced at the footman standing by the door. He would not—could not—become that.

“No! Please, hear my full proposal,” said Norrell, standing up also and half reaching out his hand. Reluctantly, Childermass seated himself again.

“Very well, sir. What is it you offer?”

“You would not be an ordinary servant. I have enough of them, and they perform their duties much better than you ever could. No offence meant, of course.”

“None taken, sir,” Childermass muttered.

“You would be my man of business. You have seen how foolish I can be when it comes to purchasing books. Your tasks would be to conduct my business for me, and to assist me in my profession. The other servants are frightened to even enter my library to clean, let alone when I am performing magic.”

“I… this I feel I could accept, sir,” said Childermass.

“Oh, that is excellent! When can you start? I can send someone to collect your possessions whenever you would like.”

“I can start tonight, sir, if you wish it. There is no need to collect my things. I have them all with me.”

 

Childermass did not start that night; nor the next morning, when he was obliged to go with the footman (who was named Simms) to buy some new clothes.

Childermass blanched when he saw the price of the outfits.

“I am to have three of these?” he exclaimed to Simms.

“Yes, Mr. Childermass, one on, one off, and one in the wash,” Simms answered, as bluntly as he could without giving offence. Childermass made no further comments. He had been embarrassed on many instances that day, the worst of which had been when Simms had had had to show him how to tie a neck cloth. The clothes were very fine, and Childermass was glad he did not have to wear livery.

His relationship with the other servants was… cool, to say the least. As Mr. Norrell’s assistant in all but name, he should technically have outranked them. But he was younger than all of them except the boot boy and some of the maids, and straight from the streets besides. Thus, he avoided their company as much as he could, and was grateful when the magician at last called for him.

Mr. Norrell met him in the hall. “Ah, Childermass. The library is this way.”

They traversed a twisting maze that Childermass would have thought was too big for the house to contain.

“The maze is necessary to protect my books from uneducated people coming across them by accident,” Mr. Norrell explained, “If you stay on, I will show you how to navigate it.”

Childermass rather liked the maze. It reminded him of the back alleys he had grown up in. Though he could now see why the other servants were reluctant to go to the library.

The library itself was a grand place. Bookshelves all the way up to the ceiling turned it into a sort of maze in itself. Nevertheless, it seemed comfortable and homely. There was an armchair, and a large hearth. From the discarded plates and the dressing gown draped over the arm of the chair, Childermass deduced that Mr. Norrell spent much of his time here.

Mr. Norrell wasted no time in putting Childermass to work. He was sent to fetch many books, and other magical supplies, and by the end of the day Mr. Norrell had succeeded for the first time in casting a spell to make plants grow from the seed in just a few seconds.

That evening, Childermass sat in his small room at the top the house, and read his cards. They told him that he would be in Mr. Norrell’s service for a long time to come.

**Author's Note:**

> The reason I put in that Childermass isn't his real name is that I always felt that it's a kind of fairytale name. It sounds like an alias.
> 
> Also, as we can see from the show and book, Childermass adapts to being in Mr. Norrell's service pretty quickly. He's a very adaptable person.
> 
> Feedback very much appreciated!


End file.
